


Reunion

by WanderingAlice



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-04
Updated: 2012-12-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 08:11:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/583166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WanderingAlice/pseuds/WanderingAlice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock comes back in need of his doctor</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reunion

“Last one of the day,” Sarah smiled at him, handing him the patient’s folder. “I’d do it myself, but he requested you. Poor guy looks half-dead.”

“Mm,” John flipped open the file, which was rather empty. Except for vaccination records and the nurse’s measurements- the man was too thin for his height, running a temperature- there wasn’t anything. The name read Sigerson, Hamish. “What did he say was wrong?” Despite Sarah’s kind intentions, John was glad of the chance to stay later. Going home to his empty flat was... not appealing. Today more so than usual. It was a year to the day from when Sherlock had died, and the grief hadn’t gone away. It had gotten easier to deal with, most days, but sometimes the memories were still too strong, and he’d have to go find a quiet room somewhere to sit and cry.

Everyone else had moved on, it seemed. Molly was with a new man, Greg and Mycroft had had some sort of creepy bonding experience over Sherlock’s death (John _really_ didn’t want to know,) Mrs. Hudson had gotten a tenant for 221C, though she assured John that 221B was still his if he wanted it. He didn’t. He couldn’t even bring himself to go back and pick up his things, let alone go through Sherlock’s items. They might have been left to him in Sherlock’s will, but to John, they would always and forever belong to his brilliant detective. Moving on… well, he just wasn’t quite ready to let go yet.

“I’m not really sure. He looked homeless, probably another one of your friends.” ‘Friends’ was the code Sarah used to describe Sherlock’s homeless network. They’d started coming to John when they could afford a doctor, trusting him just because he was Sherlock’s… whatever he was to Sherlock. After his death, they’d kept coming. Helping them out was yet another way to keep Sherlock close. John was sure his friend would have approved.

The patient was waiting in John’s exam room, the door cracked open. A dirty coat had been tossed over the back of the chair, followed by a torn and tattered button-down shirt. The pants folded on the seat had seen better days, but they at least looked more intact than the skin of the man looking out the window.

Sigerson leaned against the wall as if it were all that was holding him up. His shoulders slumped in exhaustion, long shaggy blond locks brushed against his chest as his head hung low. He was turned away from the door, gazing idly outside, one hand clutching at the paper blanket a nurse had given him. The blond was obviously a poor bleach job, and hadn’t been attended to in some time- there was about an inch of black showing from the part in the man’s hair. Actually, little of him looked like it had been looked after recently. John could count the knobs in his spine, and the man’s ribs stretched his skin painfully. He was pale, almost ghostly, save for the angry red of healing scars that spread across his back.

The man turned his face to the wall as John entered, giving him just a glimpse of sharp cheekbones, marred with bruises old and new. Then Sigerson’s face was hidden, and John could breathe again. For a second, the man had looked too much like Sherlock.

“What seems to be the problem today, Mr. Sigerson?” John asked, the stock line falling flat in the tense room. Sigerson shook his head, letting out what sounded suspiciously like a sob. His shoulders shook, and the movement opened a recent wound anew, oozing bright red blood to carve a track down his back.

John immediately went into what he thought of as his ‘doctor-mode’, grabbing disinfectant and soft cloth from the cabinets. Quickly and efficiently, he swabbed the cut, and several others that were also starting to bleed. Obviously the man had been attacked, and not for the first time. Thankfully, these cuts weren’t too bad, not like the barely healed scar on Sigerson’s lower back, which wrapped across his left side and down over his right hip. That one had probably laid the man up in a hospital for some time.

“Where’d you get these, hmm?” John tried a gentle voice. He should call Lestrade, get this man somewhere safe for the night while they tried to arrest his attacker. The bastard had really done a number on him, slicing thin lines in Sigerson’s back with an extremely sharp blade.

Sigerson didn’t answer, but his shoulders continued to shake under John’s hands.

“These look like sword wounds. I had a friend who used to fence, once. One time, his opponent missed and ripped open his shirt. The bloody idiot had challenged him to a duel without that protective padding stuff they wear. And he’d accepted! Anyway, the guy cut a nice gash in his chest, but while I was cleaning him up, all he could do was complain that his shirt was ruined, and if I hadn’t stepped in to stop the fight he would’ve won.” John shook his head fondly. It had taken a long time to be able to speak of Sherlock, that he could do so now at all was a big step. But it seemed to be calming his patient, a soothing voice was probably the first thing he needed, after medical attention. He must have been through quite an ordeal.

By the time John had taped the last of the bandages in place on Sigerson’s back, the man had stopped shaking. But he still hadn’t said a word, or lifted his head from the wall. John had tried to get him to move to the examination table, but had been met with resistance. He didn’t even know what the man’s face looked like, or if there were more injuries.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” John was answered with a shake of his head. Still no words. He was starting to really worry about the guy, this was looking like more than physical damage. It was time to call Lestrade. “Right, then, you just sit tight, I need to go get something from the other room, then we’re going to get you a safe place for the night. And no protesting, I’m not letting you go back out to whoever put you in this state, and that’s final.” The last was added when the man’s head shot up and he’d stiffened. John patted the man gently on an uninjured part of his shoulder and turned towards the door. “I’ll just be right back, I have a friend that can help you out-“

“John.” He froze. That voice. It had been so long, but he’d never forget it. He turned back. Sigerson was still facing the wall, away from John, but his hand reached out towards the doctor.

“John,” he said again, and this time he slowly moved his head, piercing grey eyes locking on John, freezing him to the spot. The world whirled around him. He had to be seeing things. The ghost of a long-dead friend in a battered and beaten homeless man in his exam room. It couldn’t be real.

“That’s not possible. You can’t be-“

“John.” A third time, broken, pleading. And John was running to him, taking his face in his hands, gazing into those remarkable eyes, searching for signs he knew he wouldn’t find. Except that he did find them. Everything, _everything_ about the man screamed Sherlock. Never mind the dirt and the bruises, the greasy blond hair, or the scar on his temple (had that happened when he fell?), the face before him couldn’t belong to anyone else.

“Sherlock?” The name escaped his lips, almost a whisper. Sherlock. His detective.

All at once, the man crumpled against John, tears streaming down his face and soaking the doctor’s shoulder. Great heaving sobs wracked his body as John stood still, arms wrapped around him, mind spinning. He’d hoped, imagined, _begged_ for something like this to happen. Hadn’t he asked for one more miracle?

It took a while, but Sherlock’s sobs finally quieted, and he raised his head from John’s shoulder. Familiar eyes scanned his face, no doubt deducing everything about the past year from the wrinkles at the corner of John’s eyes, and gentle musician’s finger ghosted across his skin, touching, examining, memorizing, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was real. Aside from a reverently whispered “John,” Sherlock didn’t speak, didn’t seem capable of forming any other words.

And then it was John’s turn to let out a huge gasping sob. A year’s worth of tears poured forth, and the doctor was clinging to Sherlock, afraid to let go, lest the man leave him again. In contrast to the detective’s eerie silence, John let lose a litany of words. “You’re alive. My god, you’re alive. You- how could you _do_ that? You bastard! What happened to you? You left me alone. Why now? Sherlock. You’ve come back. You’ve come home. You’re alive. Sherlock. _Sherlock_.”

Long hands framed his face, raising John’s head to look Sherlock in the eyes. He searched the doctor’s eyes for something, John wasn’t sure what, but perhaps he found it, because he finally spoke, his voice a little broken, a little shaky. “Home, John.”

“Oh god yes.”

Sherlock didn’t speak again for three days.

\--

 

They dressed Sherlock in the spare set of clothes John kept at work, stashed in the bottom of his locker in case a patient got sick on him or made a mess that got past the white lab coat. The jumper was simultaneously too short and too wide for the man, and the pants were just laughable, even when held up by John’s belt, but they were better than the rags Sherlock had been wearing. Those went into the incinerator, but only after John had searched for and removed a phone and small moleskin notebook from the pockets of the jacket. The detective just clutched at John’s hand, grey eyes following the doctor wherever he went.

They took a cab home. It was only after he’d given the address for Baker Street that John remembered about his little flat by the clinic, but he didn’t correct himself. 221B would always be home, the other flat was only a place he had lived for a while. The rent had been paid through the year in any case; John suspected a gift from Mycroft. Sherlock leaned against him on the seat, gaze locked on his face.

When they reached Baker Street, John helped Sherlock out of the car. His detective could barely support his own weight, and John wondered, not for the first _or_ last time, what had happened to him. He was so _tired_ , and he looked so lost, and he refused to let go of John’s hand, even to get out of the cab. Once they’d got him into a standing position, John slid under Sherlock’s arm, holding him up and guiding him to their flat.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door to 221 as the cab pulled away, the shopping bag in her hand a clear sign of her destination. Her eyes widened as she saw John and his companion. She took a step, hands extended as if to help them, and then gasped, dropping her things.

“Sherlock!”

At the same time, Sherlock collapsed, his full weight falling onto John’s back. “Home,” the word ghosted across the doctor’s ear, and then it was all he could do to keep upright as his detective passed out.

Somehow, they got Sherlock up the stairs and into a bed that hadn't seen an occupant in twelve months. Mrs. Hudson was as strong and unflappable as ever. After putting the detective in bed, she took one look at John, whose hand was still linked with his, and brought in a chair. After forcing John into it, she bustled off again, returning with a cup of tea for each of them and a plate of biscuits, which John ate idly while attempting to make sense of the last few hours. She didn't even press for an explanation, likely understanding that John didn't have one. She only asked once if Sherlock needed a doctor, to which John responded that he was a doctor, damnit, and therefore perfectly capable for taking care of Sherlock. He apologized immediately afterwards, of course, but he still felt bad for it. Mrs. Hudson must have had as great a shock as he had, seeing the man come back from the dead, and his temper didn't help matters.

Sometime during the night, he drifted off without intending to. When he woke, Sherlock was staring at him in the dim light, their hands locked in his vice-like grip.

"Hey," John said, grinning weakly at his friend. Sherlock's lips twitched, face contorting as if he was trying to smile. When at last he managed it, it was brittle and weak, as if the muscles had been too long unused.

"You ok?" John asked, using his other hand to pull the covers back up where Sherlock's movements had dislodged them. His detective nodded and squeezed his hand. "Because, if you aren't, that's alright too. Just tell me what you need."

Sherlock gazed at John, pinning him with his eyes for an interminable amount of time before reaching over with the hand not holding on to the other man and covering their entwined fingers with it. John nodded and sunk back into his chair, dozing off while Sherlock watched.

He woke again to the clear light of morning shinning in through the curtains, convinced the day before had been a dream. He could still feel Sherlock's hand in his, warm and strong and prefect. John didn't want to open his eyes, to go back to a reality where Sherlock wasn't asleep in the bed next to him. He could pretend for a few more minutes, couldn't he?

John sat up and opened his eyes with a snap. The hand in his had moved, squeezed his fingers. It was real. Sherlock was real. Sherlock was alive! Sherlock was having a nightmare.

His detective was tossing under the sheets, face screwed up in an expression of agony. Small whimpers escaped his lips as John moved, pulling his hand free to calm his friend. He grabbed Sherlock's arms when his detective flailed, nearly smacking himself in the head.

"Sherlock. Sherlock! It's ok, you're home. You're safe." John gently shook the man. "Wake up, Sherlock. Come on, wake up for me."

After what seemed like an interminably long time but must have only been a few seconds, Sherlock stilled, his eyes slowly sliding open. What John saw there nearly broke his heart. His detective's eyes were vacant, empty of all life. They searched the room in front of him, systematically cataloging everything he saw- until they landed on John. Only then did the life start to return to him, warming the icy grey to a light blue-green. Sherlock opened his mouth and formed soundless words before shaking his head and sitting up abruptly, pulling John close and burying his head in the doctor's jumper.

They stayed like that for some time, John gently rubbing Sherlock's uninjured lower back, his detective with his face pressed into John's stomach, until a knock on the door startled them into moving. John carefully ignored the wet spot on his shirt, pulling away reluctantly and heading for the door. He'd only gotten as far as the living room when a sound made him turn to see Sherlock, still dressed in John's spare clothes from the day before, standing in the doorway, holding John's gun (where had he gotten that? It should have been upstairs in his desk), and pointing it at the door to the stairs.

"Sherlock!" John hissed, running over to his friend. "What are you doing?"

In reply, the other man moved shakily to stand between John and the door.

"Oh. Oh! Sherlock," the doctor stepped in front of him and gently lowered the gun. "Sherlock, it's alright, nobody's going to hurt you, it's probably just Mrs. Hudson with tea, or, or, I dunno, the new neighbor downstairs come to say hello." Sherlock was watching him with a peculiar expression on his face, but did not respond, or let go of the gun. "It really is alright. I'm not going to let anyone hurt you." John removed the gun from his detective's hands, smiling reassuringly while inside his heart was breaking just a little at the lost expression on Sherlock's face. "Whatever it was that happened to you out there, it's over, or you wouldn't have come home. You never do like to rest until the job's finished, do you? So just let me deal with whoever is at the door, and then you and I can sit down and we'll talk about what kept you away for a year. Alright?"

Sherlock nodded, finally stepping away to collapse into his chair. John nodded in satisfaction, squeezing his detective's shoulder as he went past. He'd thought about a lot during that night, but mostly the question of why- why leave? Why stay away? Why not let anyone know he was alive? Why so many wounds? Why come back at this particular time? He hadn't been able to answer most of them, but it seemed to him that his detective wouldn't have returned home unless his job was over. It had obviously taken a toll on the man both physically and emotionally, but it wasn't like Sherlock to give in to his bodily or emotional needs unless the work he had set out for himself was finished. He might not ever tell him what it was he had been doing, but John was surprisingly okay with that. He might have hated the man for what he had done had he returned in any other way, but the state he was in made it plain that it had been important. So for now, John would let it go. Once Sherlock was better, they would have a talk about letting people think you were dead for a year, but anger could wait a while yet. Relief was still top on his mind.

The person at the door knocked again just as John got to it, louder and more insistent this time. Not Mrs. Hudson then, the spry old lady would have simply opened the door after the first knock went unanswered. John opened it. Their visitor- was Mycroft.

"Go away," John made to shut the door again but was blocked by Mycroft's foot.

"Still haven't forgiven me, I see."

"Nope. No, I haven't. What do you want Mycroft?" John didn't know what the elder Holmes wanted, but he was sure that it spelled no good for his detective. The last thing Sherlock needed was his brother showing up to cause more trouble.

"I heard you were back in Baker Street, and thought I'd come say hi." Mycroft leaned in, trying to look around him.

"And I'm the president of America. What do you really want?"

Mycroft shifted his umbrella between his hands, looking uncomfortable. "My sources said you returned to Baker Street last night with a companion. I came to ascertain the identity of this man."

"No."

"No?"

"No. The very last thing he needs is a visit from you. I don't care who you think he is, you can't see him." John could almost hear Mycroft's temper rising. This was not a man used to being refused, but for Sherlock, John was more than willing to stand up to him.

"John," Mycroft said in his I'm-trying-to-be-reasonable voice. "If he is who I believe he is, I can help you to help him. And if he is not, I need to know. Please."

It was the please that made him relent. Mycroft never said please, and even when he did it never sounded like he meant it. But this time, this time John thought maybe he did. "He needs time to recover. Give us a week, and then maybe you can come see him, if he wants to let you." He wasn't going to make this easy on the man, but John could never be needlessly cruel.

"Thank you John," Mycroft nodded, and turned to go. "If you need anything, you know where to find me."

After John was certain the other man was gone, he closed the door and turned to Sherlock. "Want some tea?"

Sherlock nodded, and suddenly John was again overcome with the knowledge that Sherlock was home. He had to hurry to the kitchen to hide his tears. He stood at the sink, hands clenching the edge of the counter until he got himself under control. It was once his tears had finally stopped falling that he felt a hand on his back. John didn't know how long Sherlock had been standing there, but his detective's presence was exactly what he needed, despite the fact that it started the waterworks again. This time though, John didn't hide, but rather turned in to his friend's arms and wrapped his own around the man. He cried into the old jumper, cocooned in Sherlock's long arms, for some time.

Sherlock didn't say a word that day, or leave John alone for more than a minute. Constant contact seemed to be the word of the hour, as his detective wouldn't let go. Even when they sat in opposite chairs, drinking tea and watching television, he kept a foot against John's leg. The silence worried the doctor, but he had been through periods of silence with Sherlock before, and knew what warning signs to search for. This seemed to be simple exhaustion, but John was not entirely at ease, and wouldn't be until Sherlock spoke to him.

By the third day, John had taken to simply speaking as much as he could, hoping Sherlock would start to respond. He talked when he changed his detective's bandages, when making lunch, brewing tea, or sitting in his chair. Little phrases, interspersed by silence as each time he hoped for a reply.

"I missed you."

"You should have seen Mrs. Hudson when Lestrade gave her that tea set for her birthday. I thought she was going to kiss him."

"The newspapers stopped writing about you pretty soon after... Well, after you left."

"Lestrade finally cleared your name. Did you leave your phone up on the roof on purpose?"

"Why did you leave?"

"Did you miss me?"

"I got a dog. You'll like him, he's called Gladstone."

"Molly kept bringing me cookies. It was nice of her, but she really shouldn't have. The last batch were almost not burned, at least."

"I found a nice pub down the street from the clinic."

"Oh, look, Mrs. Hudson dusted the skull."

"I love you."

The last slipped out before he could stop himself, but the damage was done. He had promised himself that he wasn't going to tell Sherlock that, had promised himself two years ago, when he first realized it. And now, now was possibly the worst time he could have said it. His detective didn't respond, but his face was suddenly a mask of sorrow. Minutes passed as John stood frozen, and Sherlock still didn't speak. Finally, the doctor turned away, embarrassed and worried that he had just made things worse. Sherlock needed time to recover, both mentally and physically, what he didn't need was having to deal with John's unrequited emotions.

"John." Just as he had, three days before in the little examination room, Sherlock called John's name. The doctor turned, and there was his detective, hair cut by John's inexpert hands, year-old cloths hanging from his frame, one bony hand stretched out towards him. He still looked like hell, but at last his face was animated again, eyed wide and bright.

"Sherlock?" John was wary, but hopeful now that the silence was finally broken. He walked towards his detective, who caught him by the shoulders with both hands, searching his eyes for something. Finally, Sherlock nodded, finding what he was looking for.

"John. I love you too." And with that, the dam was broken, words pouring out where none had been before. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to leave you, but you must understand, he would have killed you. You, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, you were all in danger as long as I lived. I had to die, so I could save you. And I couldn't return until I finished it. It took so long, too long, but John, I came as soon as I could. But then I couldn't tell you, I believed you wouldn't want to know, and I couldn't explain without giving myself away. I-"

John took a chance, leaning in and silencing his love with a kiss. It wasn't prefect, Sherlock kept talking for a second, and their heights made it awkward, but once he caught on, Sherlock kissed like he was trying to taste John's soul.

There was still healing left to do, both of body and mind, and relationships take time and effort. Sherlock would need to learn to be in a give and take relationship, and John would have to adjust to being with a man. Anger and hurt would get in the way, and it would take time to close the wounds of the past year, but finally they were together, and in the end, nothing could stand in their way.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first ever Sherlock fic, please review and tell me what you think!  
> (Also posted on my LJ, Flying_Mongoose)


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